


Construct

by staticbees



Category: Red vs. Blue, SOMA (Video Game)
Genre: Gen, SOMA au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-26
Updated: 2018-05-26
Packaged: 2019-05-13 20:32:34
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,359
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14755824
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/staticbees/pseuds/staticbees
Summary: "The tracer fluid ends up being in the same drawer as the newspaper clipping about the accident, an un-fucking-friendly reminder about exactly why he needs to take it to begin with. He drinks it, and pockets his phone, heading out the door toward the subway.He doesn’t like to drive anymore, not after the accident. It’s for the best anyway, seeing as someone with a traumatic, possibly fatal brain injury probably shouldn’t be driving a car."





	Construct

“Are you okay, Leonard?” Washington’s voice is distorted, a slight echo that makes Church’s head pound. “I think you’re bleeding.”

 

“Oh, that’s nothing,” he says, waving it off. “It’s just my brain can’t stop bleeding from the accident.”

 

Wash waves a bottle filled with red liquid in front of Church’s face. “Here, take this.”

 

“No, that’s for later. For the scan.”

 

“It’s green,” Wash remarks, motioning towards the light.

 

Rain pounds on the roof, and the night is cloudy and dark. A car honks, and he hesitates, hands clutching the steering wheel. “Wash, I... need to tell you something.”

 

He glances at Leonard, phone in his hands. The screen tints his face an unearthly blue, like he’s underwater. “Church, _please_ don’t make this weird.”

 

He backtracks hastily. “No, no, it’s not like that.”

 

The phone begins to buzz loudly, screen lighting up, and Church flinches. “Why now?” he demands, scowling.

 

Wash frowns, raising an eyebrow. “Who’s David Munshi?”

 

“Why is there never enough _fucking_ time?”

 

“For what?”

 

A car hurtles towards him, and tires screech as he slams down on the brake.

 

He can hear the crunch of metal as the car crumples like a tin can, can feel his bones fracturing.

 

There’s a sound of shattered glass, pain spiking in his arm, and he jolts forward in his seat.

 

His head slams into the dashboard, and everything goes dark.

 

Leonard Church’s eyes fly open, and he sits up, gripping his bedsheets with white-knuckled fingers. He takes a few gasping breaths, heart still racing, before fumbling for his vibrating phone. He curses under his breath.

 

It was the same nightmare he’d had night after night since the accident. Nothing had changed in that regard. But he had felt for _sure_ he would be able to save him this time. If he just had _another few seconds..._

 

He picks up the phone, glancing momentarily at the unknown caller ID before answering.

 

“Hey.”

 

“Hi, Leonard Church?”

 

“Yeah, that’s me.”

 

“My name is David Munshi, we spoke earlier—”

 

“The brain scan,” he realizes. “Yeah, I remember.”

 

“Are you alright?” David asks.

 

“Yeah, I’m fine, just a bad dream. Are we still on for today?”

 

“Yeah, that’s why I’m calling. I wanted to remind you to drink the tracer fluid I sent you. It will help me capture a better image of the damages.”

 

Church sighs. “Yeah, don’t worry, I will.”

 

“Okay, great. Well, see you in a couple of hours, then.”

 

“Yep. See you soon.”

 

David hangs up, and Church slips the phone into his pocket. He stands up, and listens to his voicemail, rolling his eyes as Flowers asks about weekend plans, even though Church is _sure_ he sent him an email reminding him about his doctor’s appointment.

 

He checks his emails, and groans, realizing he forgot to hit send. He shrugs, _actually_ sends the email, and heads off to find the tracer fluid.

 

It ends up being in the same drawer as the newspaper clipping about the accident, an un-fucking-friendly reminder about exactly _why_ he needs to take the tracer fluid to begin with. He scowls, and gulps down the lightish red liquid, wincing at the bitter taste.

 

He pockets his phone, and heads out the door, and towards the subway. He doesn’t like to drive anymore, not after the accident. It’s for the best anyway, seeing as someone with a traumatic, possibly fatal brain injury _probably_ shouldn’t be driving a car.

 

His phone buzzes again while he’s riding the subway, and he picks it up, frowning when he sees the caller.

 

“Flowers.”

 

“Hello, Leonard.”

 

Flowers sounds happy, which isn’t that much of a surprise. As far as Church is concerned, being overly enthusiastic and upbeat are traits that make up the majority of Butch Flowers’ personality. That is, not including the general sense of unease and foreboding that he can’t quite explain. Church figures Flowers will probably stab him in the back someday. Well, not unless he dies first.

 

He grimaces, cursing himself. _I’ve moved onto the black humor stage of dying. Great._

 

“I got your email,” Flowers continues warmly. “Just wanted to wish you good luck, and let you know I got you covered.”

 

“Thanks,” Church replies. “I should be able to come to work after the scan,” he adds.

 

“Don’t sweat it. I have Caboose and Tucker helping me out.”

 

“Caboose... from S&L?”

 

“I guess you didn’t hear? He’s coming in full-time- working the comic section.”

 

Church takes a moment to process that information before responding. “That’s Wash’s job.”

 

“Oh, well. You know.”

 

“Forget it,” Church mutters. “Not doing him any favors by leaving an empty spot. Not like he’s coming back.”

 

“Well, good luck. I hope they find a way to reverse the whole… you know, dying thing.”

 

“Dying thing?” Church repeats, scoffing. “You’re the worst fucking support ever.”

 

“Well, what should I say?”

 

Church rolls his eyes. “See you later, Flowers. Don’t burn the place down while I’m gone.”

 

“Over and out, buddy!”

 

Flowers hangs up, and Church stares at the blank screen for a moment before tucking it into his pocket with a sigh.

 

-

 

The building where his brain scan is scheduled is empty and dark, and he flicks the light on, cursing under his breath. Munshi’s phone is turned off, and the doors are all locked.

 

He heads over to the computer and checks the emails on it, finding one about a new password. There’s a notebook in one of the drawers nearby with a series of numbers scribbled onto it, and Church figures that must be the code. He heads back over to the door and punches it in.

 

There’s a click as the door unlocks, and he pushes it open, heading down the hallway towards what he hopes is the brain scan room.

 

When he enters, a man is standing in the room, looking at one of the machines. He turns around, looking slightly surprised at the intrusion. “Oh, hi. Didn’t hear you come in. Leonard Church, right?”

 

“Yeah. And you’re Doctor Munshi?”

 

He laughs slightly. “It’s just Mr. Munshi, but I’m working on it. Actually,” he admits, “You’re helping me right now.”

 

“Is this part of your thesis work?”

 

David nods, and explains that it’s a study he’s doing with a colleague, hoping to find a “gentle” way to work with brain construction, to help people who have suffered from brain injuries, like Church. He pauses for a moment. “Did you take the tracer fluid?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“Great,” Mr. Munshi responds. “We can start whenever you’re ready.” He goes on to explain exactly how the brain scan is created. If it works, it’ll help develop the perfect treatment for Church’s condition, and, rather than a simple study, it could actually have long-term benefits.

 

Church nods, and heads over to the brain scan chair, careful to avoid the dozens of tangled wires dangling from machines and strewn around the room. Mr. Munshi sets up the brain scan, and the helmet lowers onto Church’s head with a click. When it raises again, Church’s vision is blurry and bright, and he winces, sounds loud and distorted. Mr. Munshi asks him a series of questions about himself, typing up his information on the other side of the room.

 

After a moment, he flicks on the machine. There’s a whirring noise, and static overlays Church’s vision, crackling in his ears. He flinches back as the whirring gets louder, and everything goes white.

 

-

 

The helmet raises off of Church’s head to a pitch black room, illuminated only by a red emergency light. He freezes, eyes widening. _What the hell?_

 

“Mr. Munshi?” he calls, voice echoing in the darkness. No one answers. He frowns. “Did something go wrong?” There’s only silence.

 

He stands up and tries to find the door, almost tripping over countless wires and cords in the process.

 

“If this is a joke, it isn’t fucking funny!” Church snaps.

  
He heads over to the glowing panel and pulls down the lever, lighting up the room. An alarm blares. The glass window in front of him is cracked, red lights illuminating the hallway outside.

 

He draws in a shaky breath.

 

 _What_ happened _while I was under?_


End file.
